


Personal Is Not The Same As Important

by tielan



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Civil War (Marvel), F/M, Happy Ending, Maria Hill In Civil War, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Psychological Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-07 00:39:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5436983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tielan/pseuds/tielan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Personal is not the same as important. Maria Hill and Steve Rogers understand this far too well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Important and Personal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sugaracid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugaracid/gifts).



> This is wht came of your request. It's larger than I thought it would be.

Maria is worrying long before Tony stops taking her calls.

It’s the way Steve goes quieter and quieter, with nothing more than a cursory good-night when he comes to bed, if that. It’s the way they no longer go back to his quarters in Stark Tower, instead retreating to her apartment. It’s the way their lovemaking becomes edged, a temporary purging of demons so long as their focus is on the small picture, as long as their vision doesn’t have to extend beyond the bed – or the shower cubicle, or the couch, or the kitchen bench.

The problem is that they’re not naturally small picture people.

So when Maria stands in the Avengers lounge, watching Stark’s announcement that he’s backing the newly-proposed Registration Act by Senator Wilkes, she can feel the currents shifting around her, temper untempered – and the sides already chosen.

“What the hell does Stark think he’s doing?” Sam is frank about his disbelief.

Rhodey is just as frank about his agreement. “What he has to.”

Steve’s eyes narrow. “Making trouble – like Stark usually does.”

That doesn’t endear Steve to Rhodey. Which doesn’t endear Rhodey to Sam. Natasha says nothing, but she disengages from the converation, while Wanda steps in with all the passion of youth. But the ferocity of her belief merely washes over Vision, who clings to his understanding of the universe – as was passed down to him through two AIs of Tony Stark’s technological genius.

Maria can see the fault lines forming, but she’s helpless to do anything about it.

Or maybe she just touches the wrong nerve at the wrong time.

“We’re not machines,” Steve says, pacing the floor of her apartment, making everything look small. “We’re people. We have a right to choose what we want to do with ourselves, no matter what we’re capable of.”

“But if you break the law, you face the punishment,” Maria reminds him. “Even the Avengers are subject to law – national and international.”

Steve turns on his heel, plants his feet, folds his arms. “And when the law is wrong? If they say it’s illegal for superheroes to operate in the United States without being directly responsible to an organisation, but an unregistered superhero pulls someone out from a burning car – was the superhero supposed to let them burn?”

“No. But it’s still unlawful.” Maria knows the argument he’s making; just as she can see the argument Stark and his supporters are making. But this has been going on too long, and she doesn’t fully agree with Steve on everything.

She’s not sure he understood that until now. Blue eyes spark with disbelief.

“I can’t believe you’re saying that.”

“I can’t believe I have to say it.” It comes out sharper than she expected. But it’s so aggravating watching it all crumble apart, piece by piece. Watching Sam and Rhodey exchange brief nods as they pass each other, instead of the grins and catcalls they used to. Seeing Wanda and Vision sitting stiff and distant from each other in the lounge. Not seeing Natasha at all. “The Avengers are dangerous people, Steve. You always were. The fact that you’ve defended the world time and time again doesn’t change that you’re a weapon – and that the weapon that protects us can still be turned against us.”

“If that’s what you’re afraid of, Maria, what are you doing in my bed?” His expression sharpens, “Unless it’s one more leash on me.”

There’s a moment when her throat is so thick with disbelief she can’t even think. “Don’t be an idiot, Steve. I can tell the difference between a power grab and someone who’s trying to protect the world.” She doesn’t make it personal – she can’t let it be personal. “But rules aren’t there for people like you – or for people like Stark, or Romanoff, or Banner; they’re there to protect against the monsters in superhero clothing.”

“And a rule that makes us subject to whatever laws of the country we’re operating in dream up, in the name of ‘protection’? That requires us to give up our identity, our lives, our choices? That’s not anything I’m ever going to accept.”

“You already have,” she points out. “With the Avengers, and S.H.I.E.L.D before it.”

“And S.H.I.E.L.D was Hydra.” Steve shakes his head. “No. This isn’t right. And it leaves people wide open to prosecution for merely doing the right thing. I’m not going to quietly lie down and take it, Maria,” he says. “I’m not.”

She’s not asking him to.

Not that Steve really asks her what she thinks; not that he seems to care that she’s trying to hold everything together politically when politics was never her strong suit. There are reasons Fury assigned her to the Avengers rather than rebuilding S.H.I.E.L.D, and she realised that about six months into working with the Avengers.

She may not think of Fury as the manipulator that Natasha and Steve seem to believe he is; but she’ll give him this: he understands people and what makes them tick. The Avengers had needed a connection with S.H.I.E.L.D – someone who’d been involved at every level of the organisation, but wasn’t an Avenger themselves. S.H.I.E.L.D, meanwhile, had needed someone who could weld it back together and make it work; a visionary, known and respected through the remnants of the organisation.

Those were never going to be the same person, or even the same _type_ of person.

But now, the Avengers need someone who can keep them grounded in what they do, who can keep them from getting caught up in all the froufraw around the Registration Act. And Maria’s starting to doubt that it’s her.

The Act hasn’t even passed yet, and Maria doubts it will—

“Commander, I’ve got an incoming flight of Blackhawks squawking NSA codes.”

Maria stares at her desk interface for a few blank seconds, suddenly fitting pieces together. Steve’s absence last night. The special sitting of the Senate. “ETA?”

“Twenty minutes. Should I...” Specialist Klein hesitates. “Should I let the Avengers know?”

“You don’t need to.” Maria exhales, already seeing the patterns. She’s been too involved trying to keep everything under control for too long, and last night it all spiralled out of her grasp. “Rogers, Wilson, and Maximoff won’t be in today.”

The silence on the other end of the line is startled, but understanding. “So, uh, are we playing dumb, Commander?”

“Who’s commanding the flight?”

Klein takes a moment to check the details, but when he gets back he confirms all Maria’s worst fears. “Special Agent Andrew Forson.”

Maria barks a laugh, disbelieving. The universe is totally fucking with her. Of all the goddamn self-righteous pricks in the intelligence community that they had to draw for this...

Then again, given that it’s Forson and she’s commanding the Avengers Facility, maybe it’s not quite so random after all.

“We’re not playing dumb, Klein – and you can pass that around. What we are going to do is our _job_. We’re going to make sure that the Avengers – such as they are – are fully prepped to save the world should the issue come up. And we are going to do that no matter what laws are in place governing the superheroes. Or who comes to check in on us.”

“We’re here to do a job, not to get tied down in the paperwork. Gotcha, boss.”

The thing Maria likes about Klein is that most of the time – when he’s not trying to sound smart and snappy – he’s actually very good at getting things into a nutshell.

He’s also loyal, and Maria understands loyalty.

She wishes Steve understood hers.

 

The first thing the NSA does is put a watch out for the missing Avengers.

“They’re dangerous individuals,” Forson tells the gathered media at the media conference. “This is why we have the Registration Act, which will keep an eye on superpowers, and make sure that they’re used for good, not evil.”

“Agent Forson, for the last six months the Avengers Initiative has been run by Commander Hill, formerly of S.H.I.E.L.D. How does she feel abot you coming in and taking over the Initiative?”

“Agent Hill is on record as having acknowledged the inherent danger of superpowered individuals, stating that the Avengers were a disaster waiting to happen.”

“That was three years ago, before even the Chitauri crisis.”

“And it’s as relevant today,” Forson says bluntly. “Have you seen Sokovia lately? Seen the streets of Wakanda? Been to London lately? It’s true that these places are far from US shores, but we’ve seen our own share of trouble in New York and other places. Superheroes are super-dangerous, and they need to be managed, controlled, and, if a danger to society, stopped.”

“I thought that was why S.H.I.E.L.D was developed.”

Forson’s getting irked by the continued line of questioning. “You mean that organisation that HYDRA was wearing as a hat all those years? I think we all need to start questioning whose side S.H.I.E.L.D was really on – particularly since Nick Fury faked his own death, made sure that his Girl Friday got a job at Stark Industries to keep an eye on the Avengers, and set up the Avengers Initiative before vanishing into thin air again.”

Watching from the Avengers lounge, Rhodey glances over at Maria. “Do you want me to hold him so you can take a swing?”

“I resent the implication that I’d need you to hold him.” But she appreciates the gesture – made by a friend, for a friend. That’s Rhodey.

On the screen, Forson’s answering more questions, aggressive and aggravated. Rhodey watches pensively, and after a moment comments, “You know, I agree with Tony that we need checks and balances on the Avengers. But I don’t like the feel of this.”

Maria nearly asks him what he expected when Tony made superhero accountability the business of the US Senate and the UN Special Taskforce on World Secuity. She holds her tongue, but maybe Rhodey still feels it, because he glances over at her with a quick frown. “Do you know where Rogers and the others are?”

“No.”

“Because if you did, I’d advise them to come in quietly and accept Registration. USAF has put Talbot back on the taskforce to hunt rogue superheroes.”

“Because he did such a good job last time.”

“He got the job done.” Rhodey doesn’t give his opinion on whether it was a job well done or badly, though. “And he may not have Senator Ward’s support anymore, but he doesn’t need it – not with the Senate, US Intelligence, and the US Military backing him.” Dark eyes look soberly over at Maria. “I’m giving you a heads’ up, that’s all.”

Maria appreciates it and says as much.

It’s not as simple as good guys and bad guys anymore.

 

Steve stills as she walks in the door.

Then, without dropping his gaze, he says, “We’ll talk later,” to the person on his ear, pulls off his earpiece and puts it in his pocket.

Maria does the same; trust given, trust received.

“How are you?”

“Surviving. You?”

The gesture is wry. “Surviving.” His gaze sweeps over her, taking her in, and the gesture is reassuring – whatever else has changed, that much concern hasn’t. “What’s happening, Maria? Why is the NSA pushing this?”

“Because they think it’s the right thing to do.”

“You don’t believe that any more than I do.”

“I don’t like how they’re doing it,” she reminds him. “But accountability for superheroes? Yes, I believe in that.”

“So the end justifies the means? Not like this. Not for you.” His gaze holds hers, unapologetic, undaunted by the time or the place or the situation around them. “You don’t believe in what they’re doing, Maria. This isn’t what you’ve ever wanted.”

Like he knows what she wants, like he has any idea of what drives her. Like he didn’t walk away without telling her where he was going, what he was doing, because he didn’t know if he could trust her.

“No,” she agrees, her throat tight. “But this is what I have to work with – or around, if it comes to it. The protection of the world takes priority; it has to, because that’s the everything—that’s the _only_ thing—”

She stops because his head’s come up, arrested, like a hound scenting the prey. Then she can’t speak because the expression on his face is _betrayal_ – sharp as a stab to the heart. “You brought reinforcements?”

“I—” The screech of the PA interrupts her protest.

“ _This is General Talbot of the United States Air Force; Captain Steven Grant Rogers you are a fugitive of the law and we are under orders to arrest you. Come peacefully and there wil be no bloodshed…_ ”

The world whirls, Maria is aware of an aching pain in her arm, and under her breastbone, and then cold metal rivets dig into her back and the shield’s metal edge digs into her throat.

“Why?” He searches her eyes for an answer she doesn’t have – because she never thought the question would be asked of her – not by him. “Why would you do this?”

“I didn’t—” The words are croaked but he’s not listening.

Faster than lightning, he whirls and the bullets being fired at them sting his shield with metallic pings. He hurls the shield, overarm. The bell-like tones of its rebound is anchored by the thump of the facility wall and the thud and crack of human flesh and human bone.

Someone is calling for reinforcements, and Maria hears herself referenced.

… _assisted by Hill…_

She doesn’t stay to argue her cause. She doesn’t stay to see him fight. She doesn’t stay to be taken and brought in, a traitor to the cause – either cause.

Four hours later, in a shed down the bottom of a Pennsyvlania field, she drops onto the edge of a straw pallet and puts her head in her hands.

_Why would you do this?_

_Why would you think I’d betray you?_

 

Angelina is blunt and imperious when Maria opens the door. “What have you done to your hair?”

Maria ignores the laugh Akela hastily turns into a cough. “How’d you find us?”

“You are worse than Melinda.” Angelina says as she walks in. “So little faith. No, I was not followed. Yes, I brought the files.” She pulls a chain out from inside her blouse, and breaks open the little fish hanging from it to show a USB thumb drive.

Tossing the thumb drive across the room to Akela, Maria turns back. “Thanks. I know it was a risk....”

“A risk worth taking.” Angelina shrugged and looks pointedly at the others in the safehouse. “As others also thought. You still have some who are loyal to you, Maria.”

“And some who aren’t.” The moment the words are said, she wishes them taken back. But Angelina’s expression holds understanding if no sympathy – which Maria appreciates; sympathy could break her. “Thanks for the intel.”

“Thank me by getting a proper haircut.” Angelina eyes her hair like it has snakes in it. “That style doesn’t suit your face.”

In the end, Maria lets Angelina redo her hair. It’s a small, stupid thing in the midst of this ridiculous war, but the gesture – simple and thoughtful – helps. So do Alan Thorpe and Cameron Klein’s responses when they get back from their ‘mission’.

“Nice ‘do, commander.”

“I like it,” Alan says, brushing his fingers along the nape in presumptive familiarity, and smiling sideways at her. “It looks good on you.”

Once, Maria would have shrugged off his touch, moved away. Even back when they were seeing each other, she was careful about contact in public – possibly even obsessive about not being seen together. Now? Now, she allows the caress. Alan isn’t a danger to her that way. And yes, she’s using him, but Alan’s canny and clever – he’s willing to take his chances.

“I hate to break up the fashion salon,” Akela commented, “but you’re going to want to see this, Maria.”

Maria frowns at the logo Akela has displayed on the screen. “I’ve seen that logo…”

“Okiyaki Technologies; they’re a small-size company in Japan and East China. Satellite parts and programming. But I saw this logo when the Clairvoyant instructed me to pick up a package in Fall 2011. Openly,” she adds. “Not a theft.”

 _Satellite parts and…_ Maria turns to Angelina. “These are the corporate funding files for Senator Wilkes?”

“Corporate funding, aides and advisors,” Angelina confirms. “Surely you are not thinking...?”

“ _Cut off one head…_ ” Maria mutters. “Okay, let’s look for more what and who, but let’s also start working out _why_.”

 

In the end, it all comes down to money and power.

HYDRA is, indeed, the beast with many heads, and those heads have regrown in spite of S.H.I.E.L.D’s best efforts. And with careful effort, the money trail comes clear – donations applied to power to bring superheroes under the control of...

But there, Maria gets stuck.

The NSA isn’t S.H.I.E.L.D, whatever they like to think of themselves – not even close. S.H.I.E.L.D had networks and contacts across the globe, fingers in every international pie. It was an American-based behemoth, with connections that spread through every nation on Earth. In comparison, the NSA is wholly American for a start – as is the Senate. And while they can argue that the Avengers facility is on US soil, and therefore subject to the Superhero Registration Act so long as it is, if they so much as set a finger outside the US, then there will be political hell to pay.

“Why would HYDRA want the NSA, anyway? There’s no value in it.” Klein eases his chin off his hand and scratches his curls. “And I don’t just say that as someone who was given the boot out the door.”

“They don’t care about Registration. This isn’t about superheroes and controlling them.” Maria’s been thinking about it all evening, about the way everything’s gone from bad to worse. She tries to think in the general rather than the specific, but the specific is still there in her head, gold waves of hair tucked in against his cheek, one strong arm protectively circling slender shoulders. She turns her thoughts elsewhere – to the situation which has come about and which shows no sign of abating. “This isn’t about the Senate or the NSA or even us. This is about creating chaos – about destabilising the situation, until it reaches a tipping point, and then catching it and righting it.”

Alan blinks. “They don’t want to register heroes, they want to _be_ the hero.”

“That’s...okay, that’s pretty impressive,” Klein says, admiringly, before he hastily adds, “Diabolical. But impressive.”

“Which means we’re looking for the solution they want to enact when everything goes pear-shaped.” Maria glances over at Akela who’s already typing. “No, let Klein do that. We need you to think back to the contacts you made while the Clairvoyant had you running errands. You’re our best connection to HYDRA sources – the ones we haven’t yet identified. And then we’ll need a cross-check against the Senate Committee for Registration – their donor records, their support structures, and what they plan to have step into the breach when the Avengers Initiative is trashed.”

Angelina eyes her. “Even if you find all these links, how will you stop this war of heroes? You do not have the position anymore. You do not have the voice.”

“I don’t,” Maria agrees. “But I know someone who does.”

 

“Are you sure about this?” Pepper asks, one hand on the door that leads from the media centre to the open-air Plaza out the back of Stark Tower.

“No.” Maria sets her shoulders. “But they haven’t left me with any choice.”

Open warfare between superheroes in the streets, open fire on superheroes by the military, and she’d made calls to both Steve and Tony and neither were taking them. What they thought she might do, might say, she couldn’t imagine, but they weren’t going to even give her the chance to speak.

 _The pride of man._ Angelina merely shrugged when Alan and Klein protested. _It does not have to be of males, although in this situation, it is about the men._

She hasn’t asked who Pepper supports; she doesn’t need to.

This isn’t about ego, or guilt, about might, right, authority, or power.

This is about the men they love tearing the world apart.

And, yes, she knows that loving Steve Rogers unrequited makes her a fool. She’s an ex at best, an enemy at worst. He’s with Sharon now – someone who won’t question him, won’t challenge who or what he is, but who’ll support him in whatever he chooses. That’s what they all want, in the end, isn’t it? A Girl Friday to do their bidding and follow their lead, even if it’s into stupidity.

Maria can’t be that.

She can’t sit back and be quiet, let the boys do the heavy lifting, mute her opinions to keep the peace.

That’s not who she is.

Fury understood that, at least; and if he was annoyed by her choices and decisions, he never required her compliance with his opinion – just with his orders when he gave them.

_But I think this is bigger than even you know, sir._

She reaches for the earpiece tucked into her hair. “Alan?”

“It’s uploaded.” The silence holds a raft of things that go unspoken. Maria hears him sigh. “Good luck out there.”

Pepper meets her gaze and smiles. “It’s a full house.”

“Showtime.”

She pushes the doors open, and strides out to the sudden clamour of the media. Questions are shouted at her as the reporters surge to their feet, a cacophony of syllables assaults her.

Maria stands at the podium beneath the sickly grey sky of a New York April afternoon and waits for quiet. It takes a minute or so, and in that minute she lets her eyes scan the Plaza. The media are gathered in front of her, but beyond them are the businesspeople going about their business, incurious. The tourists are more intrigued, several groups drifting over to see what’s going on. And if she lifts her eyes up to the buildings surrounding Stark Plaza, she can see people drifting over to the windows, briefly wondering to their colleagues before heading back to their desks.

Maybe somewhere out there, Steve and his anti-Registration rebels are watching, thinking she’s going to pull the rug out from under them.

And she is; but more importantly, she’s going to pull the rug out from beneath her enemies, from the monsters hiding in better men’s clothing.

She has her audience. And it’s time for the show to start.

“Fifteen minutes ago, a set of documents was uploaded to four of the biggest social media sites here in the US, to two sites in China, and two in Russia.” There’s a mad rush for phones and tablets among the aides to confirm her words; but most eyes are still on her, and the cameras are still filming – including the live streaming to the internet news sites where her words will spread. “Select newsrooms will be receiving the brief even now: that the Superhero Registration Act was sponsored by HYDRA – by companies and subsidiaries owned by known HYDRA elements and sympathisers. The following politicians have benefited from HYDRA’s sponsorship: Senator Harold Wilkes, Senator Michael Soto-Chavez, Senator Elissa Moreton, Senator Norman Coburn – all of whom have been key in herding the Superhero Registration Act through the doors of the Senate.

“No doubt, many of you will question how this changes things; don’t superheroes need a rein on their powers, on their responsibilities? Isn’t the Act designed for the good of mankind, insurance and restraint against the dangers that people like the Avengers represent? To which I say, yes. Yes, it is.” Maria looked out at the reporters steadily, meeting eyes and holding them before moving on. “But we’ve all seen the news lately – fighting in the streets, military units with orders to shoot superheroes on sight. To take them down – judge, jury, and executioner before guilt or innocence can even be proven. Ladies and Gentlemen, this isn’t a Civil Act designed to protect you; this Act is a Civil War designed to divide us, to destabilise our trust in each other – before we turn around one day to find ourselves conquered.”

She lets that sink in. “In the documentation uploaded to the internet, you will find the drafts for a new Civil Action – the follow-on from the Superhero Registration Act. In it, your rights – the rights of ordinary men and women – are curtailed in the name of the overall protection of society from superheroes – _all_ superheroes, not merely those who’ve Registered themselves. According to those drafts, protection will be contracted out from those same companies which sponsored the Registration Act – and in order to maximise that protection, individuals will be asked to register themselves, their families, their loved ones. All in the name of protection.”

There’s murmurings, mutterings; someone down in the peanut gallery expresses disbelief that the uploaded documents hold all that.

“You have the documentation,” Maria says, caught between amusement and disdain. “You can read, I presume. Or maybe your kids can read it to you, although they might have to explain some of the longer words to you.”

“And do you expect us to withdraw support for Registration? On your say-so?”

“I expect you to _think_.” Maria looks Everhart in the eye – the woman has a gift for asking the questions that matter. “I expect you to make choices based on all the evidence, not just what you’ve been told. And when they come for you and your family and for the information about you that can be bought and sold, that will be used to rule and regiment you – maybe you’ll choose submission in the name of safety, maybe you’ll choose individual defiance, and maybe you’ll understand what you let into our legislation when you let the Superhero Registration Act pass through the Senate – the hooks that HYDRA has spent seventy years trying to get into us at every turn.

“During the takedown of HYDRA last year, Steve Rogers told the assembled forces of S.H.I.E.L.D that the price of freedom was high, but that he was willing to pay it.” And named himself a martyr for that cause, as though he was the only one willing to die in the fight. Maria feels the laugh bubble up inside her, bitter cynicism. “And this time, the price of freedom is to step back, to think and not just act, to make choices that aren’t just about us and our personal rights, but about the safety and security of all of us.”

“The greater good?”

“If that’s what you want to call—” Maria takes a step back. Is _shoved_ back – only there are no hands on her, just a sharp pain spreading through—

 _Oh._ Her hands lift to her chest before falling away bloody, strength draining from her like water in the gutters of the city. There are screams overhead, shouts and cries, and then arms around her – Pepper in the no-longer-pristine suit, catching her as she stumbles, lowering her to the ground. “Oh, my God, Maria—”

Fiery pain, spreading through her body. Voices in her ear, calling her name, running over each other as they give orders to— _Barton, do you have eyes on? Fucker’s not visible from my position. I’m tracking trajectory, Rogers. We can co-ordinate, Colonel Rhodes. Romanoff— Already on it, Stark. As is— Just like old times, Natalia? Maximoff—? Yes. This isn’t capitulation, Stark. Relax your ass, Rogers; I know how a truce works._

Agony spreads out through her body, cancerous. Does she scream? Does she black out? She’s not sure, but when her vision clears there’s the Vision leaning across her, speaking to Pepper in low, calming tones. And a small ball begins warming inside her, rising to a hot burn, and odd pressures in her chest.

 _Commander. Hold on. We’ve got you._ The mental voice is female; the accent is heavy, stressed; the imperative shoves through the fog – but not for long.

The world blooms in blurry pain before Maria succumbs to floating darkness.

 

There’s music; a summer evening’s light jazz floating through the air.

Maria starts to stretch in the bed, then stops. Sits up, sharp and shocked, one hand pressing against her chest. The thin fabric of the t-shirt doesn’t conceal the state of the skin underneath – not that there’s anything to hide; no scar, no wound, _nothing_.

She looks over at the man who’s turning from the window – _he turns_ – and meets the glittering dark gaze of Nick Fury.

“You’re lucky Helen Cho happened to be at the Tower with her cradle when you got shot.”

“Lucky, huh?”

Fury turns around fully. He’s given up on the hobo look, and is back in full Director of S.H.I.E.L.D mode. Trousers, shirt, jacket, and eyepatch – all in black.“Are you accusing me of collusion, Hill?”

“Just of being a foresightful bastard, sir.”

“Being a foresightful bastard saved your life.” He eyes her, his expression stiff and stern, at least on the surface. “How do you feel?”

“A little achey.”

“Like you had a bad night’s sleep, not like you got shot twice in the chest.”

“Did they find the shooter?”

“Nope. And believe me, there was a great deal of annoyance over that.”

“HYDRA was ready for me.”

“And yet not so ready that they could get at you when you named them. It took them five minutes to get someone in position. And yes, we have their position, and yes, it’s being followed up.” Fury doesn’t smile, but the set of his face indicates amusement. “It seems that whatever their thoughts on Registration, the Avengers are all rather fond of you.”

Maria could point out this is coming from a man who engineered a major healing device to be on-site when she put herself in the firing line, but that seems crass.

“How are my people?”

“I assume you mean Amador, Thorpe, Klein, and May Senior? They’re fine. As a matter of fact, they’re the ones following up on the shooter.” Fury’s expression shifts, and now the amusement is edged. “May Senior basically elbowed Stark and Rogers out of the way and took over. When Stark protested, she told him he’d caused enough trouble and that his job was now to take his hand off his balls and fix what he’d broken.”

Maria coughed, imagining Angelina’s polite disdain. “Should I ask what she said to Ste— To Rogers?”

“That he could do the same – inasmuch as what he’d broken could be fixed.” Fury eyed her. “It’s not like you to let your hormones get in the way, Hill.”

If only it was just hormones. Maria manages a careless shrug. “They’re not in the way now.”

“No.” Fury watches her for a long moment, then shifts, changing the topic. “The Registration Act is shedding followers like a molting parrot, by the way, and there are noises about a Senate Committee being formed to investigate the companies you found supporting the Senators who were instrumental in the Act. There are also assorted lawsuits against defamation in the works, although Ms. Potts has set an army of Stark Industries lawyers to earn their keep so those wheels will grind slow.”

And this was the way the war ended; less with a bang, more with a pile of paperwork a mile high.

Maria stared at the solution she’d wrought for a moment, and found it was...good. Sort of. It wasn’t terrible, at any rate. “So,” she says, “what happens now?”

“On the scale of Registration? I don’t know. That’s up to Rogers and Stark. And Potts, who seems to have taken that job on with a will that might even match yours. On the scale of you and today? Thorpe asked to be informed when you’re up. If you’re okay with that.”

Maria’s okay with that, so long as it’s in the outer room of the guest quarters here at Stark Tower. She trusts Alan with her life, but she’s not going to climb back into bed with him. Not now, not ever.

_And does the same hold for Steve Rogers?_

She doesn’t know the answer, but she wishes she didn’t suspect it was, _No_.

 

Her office at the Avengers Facility feels different – not surprising, considering Forson used it as his own, moved everything around to his satisfaction, and generally upset whatever he could. Rather like the superhero community, which is feeling its way back from the precipice over which they hovered – a destabilised world, waiting for a saviour to step from the shadows.

HYDRA – or an organisation or group backed by them – would have stepped from the shadows and demanded everything in exchange for restoring order. And a fearful world pushed by an insular America would have given it in the name of safety and security.

Bait; hook.

There’ll be another attempt of course; it’s HYDRA. But when that next head rises, Maria will be there to cut it down – and salt the wound.

In the meantime, she’s trying to work out what he did with her desktop interface.

There’s a knock on her door, and the ID comes up; _Steve Rogers._

Maria gives him access, folds down the interface, and stands up as the door opens to let him in. But she doesn’t move from behind the desk; distance and a barrier are the only weapons she has in this confrontation, and she’s going to use them to the best of her ability.

“Commander.”

“Captain.” He seems tired. Drawn at the eyes and around the edges of the mouth. But Maria doesn’t let herself think about that.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I owe you an apology. For not trusting you in the bunker. For thinking you’d betrayed me.” His eyes don’t leave her face. “For not seeing that I was dancing to HYDRA’s tune and getting you shot.”

She can’t help a snort, because this is so like him. “Were you the eye behind the range scope of the M24? No? Then you’re not responsible for getting me shot. As for the rest…” A shrug indicates how little it matters anymore. And if it’s a lie, she’s practiced it often enough in the mirror to trust that he can’t read it. “Apology accepted.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Is it terrifying how formal they are now? Maybe. But their past is past, and Maria doesn’t have that future in her – the one where she’s support and helpmate and lover and beloved to Captain America. She’ll leave that to Sharon Carter, and if it hurts, well, that’s her just desserts for being stupid enough to love Steve Rogers.

Steve stares at her for a long moment, his mouth pulling in just slightly at the corners – troubled by whatever’s going through his mind. Yet there’s anger there – a twitch that’s almost contempt before he tamps it down and asks. “When you stepped out there, did you know you’d be a target?”

Maria blinks, not sure where this is going, but her answer is careful. “It was always a possibility.”

He pauses, as though trying to find words to say. Then shakes his head and gives her a brief, tentative smile. “Thank you, Maria.”

She doesn’t smile in return. “You already said that, Captain.”

This time, his lashes drop. He nods, almost as if to himself, and goes out the way he came in, closing the door gently behind him.

Maria stays standing where she is for nearly a minute, before she takes a deep shuddering breath and lets it out. She takes a tissue and presses it carefully against her eyes so as not to disturb her makeup.

Then she sits down to sort out the mess of the Avengers Initiative.

At least it’s something she can do.


	2. The Measure Of A Man

He’s in the ice again, but this time he feels the years go by. Another seventy years, leaving behind a woman he could love— _ does _ love _ — _

But, no.

She’s moved on; left him behind when she realised he couldn’t trust her, moved on, found someone else, put herself in the firing line of a war that wasn’t even hers— _ the price of freedom is high—  _ His fingers twitch, trying to clench into fists as she staggers back, as her hands come away bloody, as they call for EMTs, for surgeons, for something to stem the bleeding—

_ Maximoff? _

_Yes._

He’d thought he was done with her; that part of his heart dry and empty, with nothing left for her to twist inside him.

Two bullets shot down his lies and his distrust, leaving him with his regrets and his pride.

_So, Cap, was the Pill a decent fuck after all? We didn’t figure it would take less than extensive surgery to get the stick out of her ass – as fine as the ass was._

And even those were taken from him in the end.

 

 

Agony slices through him again – worse than the steady ache of his own stupidity, his own distrust. Sharp silver shoves through skin and muscle, nerve and vein until it hits bone. Pain blossoms scarlet, releasing a scream through his stinging mouth, his swollen tongue—

He jerks, limbs swishing through something – not water, too thick—

“His adrenaline’s spiking.” A woman’s voice, lilting, hurried. “I don’t understand. It’s calibrated for his biochemistry—”

“Sensory overload, Doc.” The man is brusque but not angry. “Let’s turn it down—”

The pain fades leaving only a faint ache;

“The serum.” The doctor’s English is good, but very precise, the accent faint and songlike. “I didn’t think to adjust for the increased sensitivity from the serum—”

“Neither of us did,” says the man, oblique forgiveness.

He slides back into oblivion.

 

 

He’s in the ice again; floating—

Floating?

More voices – the lilting accents of the woman from before and...and...

“It’ll take longer than it usually would – for him and for anyone else, but he’ll make a full recovery.”

“Good.” The response is crisp and cool. The silence that follows it is full of unasked questions, before she says simply, “We need him back out in the field. He’s still the best there is at leading the Avengers.”

It’s a compliment – isn’t it? So why does it hurt?

“You had reason to run before, Maria.”

“And now I don’t, is that it? Does nobody ever think to ask me what I want?”

“You wanted him before.”

“That was before.”

It stabs through him, then, draining as the lights of Times Square – bright billboards flashing, cars and people everywhere as he turned, trying to process the realisation of something lost beyond keeping—

_The man who wanted family, a home – he went into the ice seventy years ago. Someone else came out._

And yet the man who came out of the ice still wanted somewhere to belong – needed people to belong to—needed people to love—

 

 

“Will he make it?”

_Do you remember who I am?_

_Your mother’s name was Sarah._

Crisp and cool, like sharp silver through his thigh. “Dr. Cho says the physical indicators are good.”

“And his mind?”

“You came back from torture and brainwashing.”

“I didn’t have my heart stripped bare in the process.”

A silence as long as the one over the comms while he hung, bleeding and battered in more than just body, more than just mind. “That’s not my fault.”

“And he means nothing to you? Just a tool to be used to save the world when it needs it?”

He meant something once.

_ She drowses afterwards, and he wants to trace her brow, her cheekbones, the curve of her lips. He doesn’t, because she’s sleeping and she has a right to do that unmolested, even if he wants to touch her like he has the right. But there’s something in looking his fill, in measuring the curve of her lashes, in wondering at the line of her cheek, in breathing in the scent of her – of  _ them.

_It means something that she’s fallen asleep in his bed, that she’s let herself be vulnerable like this. Even more than trusting him with her body, she’s trusted him with her dignity._

In the floating darkness of his mind, of his memories, he turns his face away from the memory of what he had.

Of what he threw away.

 

 

Eight hours after he wakes – after a wash and a shave, after a check-up and a feed, after conversations with his buds and his colleagues and his friends – he’s on the treadmill in the gym, running.

“You’re going to anyway,” Bruce says mildly when Steve asks if he can do some time in the gym. “Just remember that even your body has its limits.”

_Sharp silver and scarlet pain._

Steve nods, wordless. And holds out a hand for Bruce to shake. “Thanks for the rescue.”

“Hill put up a good argument for coming back.” Banner looks milder than ever – and yet, at the same time, somehow more dangerous. “I think she bribed me with science.”

He must see the still and stricken expression on Steve’s face because his next words are gentle. “Some women get beneath your skin. They don’t intend to, they might not want to, but they do. And you can tear your skin off trying to get her out or live with it.”

“Living with everyone knowing?”

“Is it shame because everyone else knows, or because she knows?”

Both. And neither.

“She shouldn’t have to live with the scorn of my...unprofessionalism.”

Steve looked into the dark eyes of a man he’d trusted but had struggled to like and seen in them the foreshadowing of every bastard who would only ever think of her in sexual terms after they watched the video. In his mind, the words play over and over, an endless sneer.  _ You let Cap fuck you senseless? Was it the pretty face, or the pretty cock that did it for you? Or maybe his pretty cock fucking your pretty face? _

As he runs from a heartache he can’t escape, from consequences he thought he wouldn’t have to bear, Steve knows he has to face her sometime.

 

 

She comes to see him, in the end.

Of course she wants it out of the way, dealt with so she can move on.

Steve’s trying to draw – a teenager he saw out jogging the other day, wearing a  _ hijab  _ printed with the American-flag, flying her colours high – but his attention is shot and when the rap at the door comes, he calls ‘come in’ with a sense of relief.

But there’s no mitigation as he meets Maria’s eyes, as the door closes behind her.

“Captain.”

“Commander.” He can do this. It’s just his heart on display after all, and he already knows she doesn’t want it. “I’m sorry about—”

“Dr. Cho says you’ll make a full recovery.” Her interruption is clear and careful; unhurried, but loud with the clear signs of someone trying to avoid an awkward topic.

Steve hesitates, then takes the cue. “Yes.”

Maria nods. “Good.”

He can see the apology hovering on her lips, and cuts it off before she gives it voice. And he needs to say this. “Thank you for not giving in.” Her gaze leaps from his shoulder to his face, her gaze steady and startled.

“For—?”

“You didn’t—” He bites back the words, hearing her words echo in his head the way they echoed then, across the comms, proud and scornful at what they failed to comprehend: _What makes him a man isn’t on the outside; Abraham Erskine knew that._

Yes, he likes his life. He likes being whole. But that’s personal.

Maria making the decision to sacrifice him? That was important.

The realisation hits him then, shuddering through him like the  _ Valkyrie  _ hitting the ice.  _ This _ was what he wanted in her, why he pushed for their relationship, why he let himself fall into her.  _ This _ was why it hurt so much when he thought she’d betrayed him, why his knee-jerk reaction was to  _ be _ a jerk, why he can’t move on.

This is why he loves Maria Hill.

Maria’s still watching him, waiting for his answer without trying to prompt him.

“You understood,” he manages. “You understood what was important.” 

She looks bewildered for a moment, like this was something she wasn’t expecting from him. Then her mouth straightens, pulling in at the corners; Hardass Hill, no hint of Maria. “I was buying time.”

“I know. You still—” He takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. “Thank you.”

He wants to say more but if he does, he’ll say it all – everything that’s already been said: his thoughts read, his privacy violated, his feelings mocked, his pride stripped. And Maria doesn’t want him – not after the Registration war.

She’s watching him with the careful steady gaze of the woman who evaluated him and the Avengers and found them wanting. When their eyes meet, though, she looks away.

It’s Steve’s turn to wait for Maria to find the words she’s looking for, until finally she sighs. “Do you really believe I think of you as a tool to be used?”

He doesn’t dare believe otherwise. “I destroyed the other options. This is what I have left.”

“Is it enough?”

“Men have died and the worms have eaten them, but not for love.” The answer springs to his lips, leaps without looking, and is gone with no hope of recall. And she tenses, because he’s mentioned the l-word and she never—he never—not even when they were together— “Sorry.”

Her lips press together for a moment, the faintest twitch of expression before it smooths out. “You have leave until the end of the month. Try not to kill yourself again in the meantime.”

_We need him back out in the field. He’s still the best there is at leading the Avengers._

And this is what he is. This is what he has.

Steve sees her out and watches the doors close behind her. He lets her go – he doesn’t have a choice; she’s not his to keep.

But when he goes back to his sketchpad, the half-finished Muslim girl who tipped him a salute this morning with a bright grin is turned over, and his pencil starts skimming over a new, blank sheet.

Slowly, she forms under the pencil tip – the sweep of her cheekbones, the shape of her eyes, the tucked-in corners of her mouth, the line of her jaw, the strands of her hair—

He draws a memory of a heavy-lidded smile in the morning: trust and tenderness.

Then he tears that off the pad and draws her in the act of turning away, her shoulders tight with tension, the line of her body intent on something else – her responsibilities, the duty she puts before everything and which is so much a part of who she is that she’d be lost without it – they all would.

Is it screwed up that he’s in love with a woman who thinks that personal isn’t the same as important? Yes. But ever since Wanda turned their brains inside out, Steve’s understood that he’s not normal anymore – maybe he wasn’t to start with.

 

 

They’d all learned to seek neutral ground after the Registration War. It wasn’t easy. Fallen heroes struggling to find their way back into grace had found redemption was a hard and stony ground. Yet they all made the effort, because Maria’s blood was on their hands, and although she never laid the guilt upon them, she never had to. She just went about her work – the business of keeping the world protected – and expected them to do the same.

But this is different.

The first day Steve walks back into the Facility, there are calls of greeting and smiles – but beneath the pleasure and the relief lurks the memory of what they saw, what they witnessed.

There isn’t quite a jostle of elbows when Maria comes out to greet him in the atrium, but Steve can feel the eyes upon them. For her part, Maria is cool and brisk, without awkwardness or embarrassment. No tenderness or softness – he’s whole, he can do the job, he’s there. And so Steve meets her plainly, as though she’s a friend and a colleague, nothing more.

Sam is warm and relieved, Rhodes is cool and pleased, and Vision greets him with a smile that holds discomforting understanding for a creature that surely shouldn’t be able to feel the way humans do. But at the first opportunity, Natasha and Wanda pull him off to the side.

“Vision took care of the video,” Wanda informs him in her blunt, unapologetic way.

“We took down the original, then hunted out the downloads.” Natasha shrugs as though it was nothing. “There’s a search-and-destroy on data packets, so it won’t resurface.”

“Good work.”

He can’t take back the slurs Rumlow cast at her, but at least he can know that there aren’t people lingering over the revelation that Maria Hill had a sex life. And it enrages him to think that nobody cares who Captain America fucks – except for the entertainment mags – but a woman in a position of power who slept with a man she wanted? That’s a different story.

Natasha frowns. “It wasn’t for you, Steve.”

He knows it wasn’t.

 

 

He falls back into the rhythm of work – no missions, not yet; physical therapy, mental therapy, testing his triggers...

His interactions with Maria are professional; she gives him no quarter and he takes no advantages. If people are watching for some little gossipy tidbit, they’re disappointed. But if Steve can look away when he glimpses Agent Alan Thorpe’s easy saunter towards Maria’s office, he can’t keep his imagination from speculating.

Then there are the dreams.

Sharp silver and scarlet pain. Shattering noise and flashing lights, wrenching at his wrists as his screams echo back at him, the twitchy-itchy feeling in his brain as Rumlow laughs, the deafening silence in his ears as Maria flinches back from the podium, takes one step backwards, two...

The first time, he half-rouses from the nightmare, one hand reaching out for her and finding only empty air. He jerks awake, hearing again the comms feed as it exploded in chatter. And beneath it all, Pepper’s voice cuts through – four words, swift and panicked: _Oh my God, Maria!_

The gaping loss claws at him, shredding his insides, and if he doesn’t let it out—

There’s a tearing sound, and then another, and then another. And when the storm in him is done, the bed is a mess and his sheets are scrap bandage.

Steve puts his head in his hands and wishes he couldn’t hear her asking,  _Were you the eye behind the range scope of the M24? No? Then you’re not responsible for getting me shot._

Those two bullets hit her, tore her up inside before Fury got her to Dr. Cho’s cradle; but Steve has a feeling they destroyed something in him, even before Rumlow and his pet telepath skinned his psyche for S.H.I.E.L.D and the Intelligence community to see.

He’s terrified that they were his illusions.

 

 

After the second time Vision finds him destroying the punching bags in the section of the facility reserved for the Avengers with eyes that see too much and don’t understand enough, Steve takes to running instead.

It’s not exercise so much as it is an exorcism of things he can’t outrun – only forget, and only for a little while. But it wears him out, wears him down so he’s fit to be around other people, without the brutal edges of his nightmares carving him up day and night, waking or sleeping. Do the others notice? Of course they do. They’re intelligent, trained, professional – and almost all of them have been there before in some way or another. But mostly they leave him alone.

Mostly.

“You want I should talk to Hill?” Sam asks one day, maybe two weeks in.

“No,” is Steve’s immediate answer. “It’s not—It’s not her.”

Sam’s expression is skeptical, but he doesn’t push.

And it’s not Maria. Not entirely.

The memories bleed through his consciousness when he lies back at night. Cold shackles burning hot, water pouring into his nose, his mouth, his throat, his lungs; the prod-wand shattering his nerves over and over as Rumlow’s eyes lit with glee. In comparison, the telepath’s gaze was pale and empty— _to make a vessel of the self where the self is not—_ And Steve poured himself into that emptiness, unable to keep his thoughts his own, unable to keep from betraying himself – and Maria, too.

Running, he doesn’t have to think, doesn’t have to remember, only has to breathe and keep going with the blood pounding in his ears while his heart barely hammers in his chest, while the world rushes by for the space of an hour or two or three...

The problem, as it turns out, is that when he turns his brain off, his instincts take over.

It’s not until Maria opens the door that he realises where he’s is, and then it’s too late.

 

 

Maria seems less angry about finding him on her doorstep at 0130 hours in the morning and more resigned, as though taking in haunted, exhausted supersoldiers who’ve reached the end of their tether is something she does all the time.

But she still tenses when Steve takes her in his arms, needing the warmth of her for however long she allows. It takes him nearly a minute to realise that she hasn’t shoved him away, even if she hasn’t relaxed; that’s how tired he is, how hard it is for him to process anything in this moment.

She just holds him, lets him breathe in the scent of her, lets him relax against her.

“How long?”

“Since I got back.”

“Which time?” Her droll comment catches in his chest, like a barb hooking into his heart. His hand comes up, brushing the tips of her hair, and memory stabs him – Agent Thorpe leaning into her space, one hand lifting as if to toy with the short edge, before she tilted her head away. _Not here._ It stabbed then, a sharp and unpleasant reminder, but it tears him up now. 

Because for Steve, the answer is  _not ever again_ and he can’t change that. It’s not his decision to make. And he shouldn’t even be here, in her space, invading her privacy like an ex-boyfriend who can’t let go—even if he  _is_ ...

He lets her go, steps away before he reaches for her again.

“It’s okay,” he averts his gaze, groping for the doorknob. “I don’t—I shouldn’t—I have to go.”

He doesn’t run out the door. But he doesn’t hesitate either. And she doesn’t try to stop him.

Once he’s out on the street, though, he runs for another hour before he goes back to his apartment and falls into bed and dreams—

_\--racking pain recedes to a dull blue ache – he hurts all over, every muscle, every joint, in a way that Steve hasn’t felt for years now. But he endured twenty-two years of batterings and beatings, of sickness, bad health, and physical incapability, and this is—this is sharp silver, carving up his outsides, while something slithers through his insides – mental fingers picking through his brain, little stings as his thoughts and memories are pulled out one by one—_

_\--ugly laughter echoes, “You and the Pill? Fuck, Cap, even I thought you had better taste than that—”_

“ _He wants her still.” The pale blue eyes of the telepath are blank as they stare at Steve. “But he’s only a tool to her.”_

“ _If he was pretty enough to let in her bed, he probably got a little further than mere fucking. Hill was always soft for the good-looking blonds.” Rumlow bares his teeth. “Looks like you might be our in after all...” Pain explodes in Steve’s balls, tearing from his mouth as Rumlow ploughs a fist into his groin—_

 

 

It’s not the last time Steve finds himself at Maria’s, but after that first time he doesn’t go in. Beause if he goes in, he’s not sure he’ll leave short of being forcibly kicked out.

Bad enough that he’s more or less become a stalker; turning up at her place every night, even if he does nothing more than stand with his hand hovering over the entrypad, contemplating keying himself in; worse to actually push himself into her space. And Maria’s not his anymore; he doesn’t have the right to go in to see her, like they’re together, like he’s worth something more to her than an Avenger.

_God’s righteous soldier, pretending you could live without a war—_

It’s drowning him – the thought that this is all he is, all he has; that it’s all he could ever have.

Maria saw it well enough after he started a war – for Bucky, for pride, for freedom, it no longer matters, he has to live with the consequences – and didn’t want him back. And after Maria got injured, Sharon saw which way the wind was blowing. _You’re not emotionally available, Steve._ Her eyes avoided him.  _So I’m walking away before I get too caught up in you._

And the troops are starting to get restless.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Natasha warns.

Rhodey stops him in the corridor. “There’s no shame in needing time out.”

“The thing about running,” Bucky reminds him as they watch the support troops train in ‘disarray patterns’, “is that wherever you go, there you are.”

Steve side-eyes him. “You’ve been talking to Sam.”

“His shit makes sense.” Bucky shrugs. “And I think it’s valid that you’d have abandonment issues. I got ‘em, too, so I don’t see why you should miss out.”

The quip makes him smile, as Bucky intended. And it stings – as Bucky also intended. His buddy knows him entirely too well.

Still, even the therapists agree that he’s hit a wall, although they disagree on the next step.

While they’re arguing, Steve keeps running. Night after night, past Maria’s apartment, habit and pattern and reassurance and touchstone.

He’s so involved in the running that he doesn’t realise there’s a figure on the steps until he’s mere yards away from her.

Maria puts her phone into the pocket of her parka and looks up at him as he stares at her, trying to understand. “We need to talk, Steve.”

 

 

_\--screaming pain of muscles sliced and injured, trying to heal, while her voice comes cool and distant as though from far away. “No deal, Rumlow. You think I’m stupid enough to walk into a trap?”_

“ _Why not? You were stupid enough to fuck him. And the funny part? He’s still in love with you – hopelessly desperate for a woman with all the softness of a titanium chastity belt!” A pause. “You know you’re not worth what he is – not to the Avengers, not to the world. So this is our deal; we’ll swap you for him. He’ll go back to saving the world, and nobody will miss you – not even Fury.”_

_Maria sounds bored. “Hardly an equal exchange.” Then she hisses. Steve barely hears Rumlow’s laugh, freezing in terror and panic as he feels the precarious knife-edge of cold steel next to his balls._

“ _I can make it more equal if you keep trying to stall, Hill. A woman for a woman; that’d be pretty equal, right?”_

“ _What makes him a man and a hero isn’t on the outside,” she says after a moment. “Abraham Erskine knew that._ ” _Her voice is steel, absolute and anchoring, and even through the panic, Steve can feel the rush of something like relief. She won’t give in – not even for him, not even for what they had together._

_ Then the ground trembles and the building shakes. The delicate fingers picking through his thoughts vanish, and Rumlow swears. But something in Steve rises, desperate and delirious. Because he knows that pace: the loping run of heavy feet, shattering concrete with every step. _

 

 

This isn’t a conversation Steve wants to have.

It’s clearly not a conversation Maria wants to have either. Her back is ramrod straight, her fingers are nearly clenched around her phone, and she asks, “Drink?” with a brusqueness that’s nearly rude.

Standing at the kitchen bench, Steve feels like if he’s going to get a dressing down, he’s going to take it on his feet and he’s not going to prevaricate.

“I don’t know how to stop.”

Maria’s not taken aback by his directness, of course. “You can’t keep doing this, Steve. It’s not—” She looks away, and the noise she makes is not quite a sigh, not quite a huff, before she looks back. “You said, _ men have died and the worms have eaten them, but not for love. _ But if this isn’t love, then it’s looking a hell of a lot like obsession.”

He swallows. “I watch you being shot down in my dreams. And you were right. It wouldn’t have been an equal exchange. Because all you’d lose in me is a hero and there’s no shortage of those anymore. But you—when you went down—You’ve worked with us, you’ve advised us, you’ve kicked us in the butt when we were being stubborn—We trust you. We all trust you.  _ I  _ trusted you—and when I thought you’d—when I thought you’d given me up to Registration—”

“You got angry.”

“Rumlow was wrong.” Steve can say that much with certainty. “The world would have mourned my death – or whatever Rumlow did to me. But they would have missed you without ever understanding what you’d given them. Just as I did. And I can’t—I have to—I’m dealing with that. It’s just—” He trails off, hesitant to make promises he’s not sure he can keep.

Maria takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “There are things that I can’t say. I can’t say them because it...compromises me. I can’t—I can’t be like most women.” Her smile is brief and bitter as she looks back up at him. “I can’t give in, because that’s not who I am, and it’s not who I want to be. If it comes down to you or operational security, I can’t—I have to go with the job. Even if—It’s not whether or not I...care about you. It’s about what I have to do. And sometimes that means...not letting it get...personal.”

“Personal isn’t the same as important. I know. I expected...” not _too much_ , Steve realises, but, “the wrong things of you. And I’m sorry.” His hands clench. “I can’t make us right again. And I wish I could stop—I’ll try—”

He stutters to a halt as Maria slides her hand into his, fingertips pushing at his fists until he unfolds his hands so she can lace her fingers into his. And her touch undoes him, because he wants more – too much more, too much  _ everything _ , and she’s not—he shouldn’t—

She shivers as she tucks her head in under his, and Steve trembles as the tension in her body drains out, aching at the need to relax against her, to bury his face in her chopped hair and cup her nape in his palm...

“I can’t.” He shudders. “Maria, I can’t have this and not want more. And I won’t share—”

In his arms, she tenses, and cold panic twists his gut. Maybe he can, maybe he can have a little bit of her – it would be stolen moments, knowing that there was someone else, but it would be  _ something— _

She lifts her head from his shoulder, and her gaze is startled. “Is this about—? I’m not seeing Alan.”

“You’re—You’re not?”

“Not for several years.”

“You let him—” Steve tries to think. Did he ever see her accept the caress? “He reaches for you.”

Maria winces. “Alan was always...tactile. I didn’t like it back then, either.” 

Reassured, Steve hand slides up her spine to the short strands of hair at her nape, testing the trimmed ends between his fingers. Her expression becomes almost rebellious. “If you’re going to say something about women with short hair—”

“I wouldn’t.” It’s not a style he particularly likes on her, but it works. And it’s her hair. He just gets to touch it as he cups her head and tilts her face up to his—

With his hands cupping her face and her mouth moving in his, Steve feels himself unwind, just a little.

 

 

They curl up in her bed like an old married couple, although Steve insists on sticking his hand up her shirt so he can feel the scars – or the spots where the scars should be.

“It’s kind of nice not having another scar to add to the collection.” Maria murmurs. She turns her head a little. “That’s not a scar, Steve.”

He grins and kisses her nape – one advantage of the short cap of hair is that he has full access to her neck – and settles his hand on her stomach. “I was thinking it’s kind of nice that you survived.”

“Mm.” Her hand covers his, fingers closing over his. “You were never just a weapon, you know.”

He knows.


End file.
